


The Balance of the Blade

by on_the_wing



Series: The Absence of Monsters [5]
Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Diverting Feelings With Sex, Get Back to Work Deimos, M/M, No Knives This Time Sorry, Relationship Discussions, Sex Meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/pseuds/on_the_wing
Summary: In which Deimos dips a tentative toe into the unknown waters of relationship talk, and promptly jumps shrieking into Praxis' arms.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Starts roughly half an hour after Denial ends. I think. 
> 
> As usual:
> 
> Marsh = Praxis  
> Skala = Deimos
> 
> past tense = Praxis POV  
> present tense = Deimos POV

Marsh’s arms are around me, and he rubs my neck with his thumb until I stop sniffing surreptitiously into his collarbone. Then he’s slowly stroking my hair, big calloused palm covering one of my ears. I’m so dizzy and it can’t be because of the booze anymore, it’s been long enough that it should mostly be out of my system. I think. I can’t remember anyone ever just holding me like this, without falling asleep or wanting to fuck again right away. It feels strange—a small anxious part of me keeps wondering what happens next—but I like it. I like feeling his body there under me when there isn’t any urgency, although just the thought of that makes a little jolt go through me. I let the feeling pass through, and relax again.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” Marsh whispers. “Thank you.”  
  
“Mmh?!” I’m startled out of my trance.  
  
“Thank you for being here with me,” he repeats, sounding embarrassed this time.  
  
I just look at him, too confused to speak. He blushes, and I recover myself and pet his chest. “It’s my room,” I point out helpfully.  
  
“Well, you know what I mean,” he mumbles.  
  
I can’t help smiling. “I’m not sure I do.”  
  
“I don’t know how else to say it. Never mind, then.”  
  
I crawl up a little higher and kiss him, taking his face in my hands. I meant to keep it chaste, or whatever passes for chaste in terms of long slow kisses, but it turns out I don’t know how to do that, especially since after the first two seconds an almost inaudible moan escapes his throat, the kind you can more feel than hear, and I can’t stop myself from licking his lips and sliding into his mouth. He sucks on my tongue, and my body coils possessively over him, tight as a spring.  
  
After a moment, I pull back. “I didn’t mean to do that,” I mumble sheepishly. “S-sorry.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“I—well—I thought we were—just lying here.” My voice is starting to sound ugly again.  
  
“We don’t have to.”  
  
“I—I l-liked it. It was different.”  
  
Marsh smiles at me. “Well, we can go back to doing it if you want to.”

I press a kiss to the side of his jaw, then rest my head on his shoulder. I stroke his chest again, then worry that it might be too exciting, and let my hand lie there. What else am I going to do? “I don’t know how to do nothing.”  
  
He laughs. “Doing nothing is a complex art; it requires a lot of practice. You’re doing very well for a beginner.”  
  
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”  
  
“I speak nothing but the facts. The interpretation is up to you.”  
  
I give up. “You know what, I think I want to switch positions.” I lean close to his ear and whisper, “I want you on top of me.”  
  
“Oh! All right.” He actually blushes. You know how in stories people blush but it’s probably just a literary device? He really is blushing. It’s so fucking cute.  
  
We shift around, and it immediately feels much better. Not that lying on top of him didn’t feel good physically, but now I feel anchored and secure too. And restrained, which in this case is um, kind of hot.    
  
“Can you breathe that way?” Marsh asks.  
  
“I can if you give me mouth to mouth,” I smirk.  
  
He laughs, then lowers his mouth to mine, trying to look serious. I decide to see how long it will take to make him crack, and kiss him with agonizing slowness, breathing lightly on his lips and keeping my touch scarcely any harder. He gets the idea soon enough, although he seems to think he can sigh without losing the game. Suddenly his hands are trapping my face and his kisses are just as light and slow as mine, but his mouth is open wider and the tip of his tongue is slipping out to tease my lips, just a little at a time. My breath comes faster before I know it, and I’m getting hard again but I can’t move, he’s got me pinned.  
  
What the fuck, you fucker, this is _my_ game. Stop winning it. Deliberately, I make a soft helpless noise and look up at him like I want him to fuck my very soul. He liked that before, I remember. He must still like it, because he lets out a deep groan and grinds his hips against mine, kissing me hard and deep and thorough. I make the noise again, and it’s not on purpose this time. My legs spread for him automatically, god I’m such a slut.  
  
“When you make those sounds, it just makes me want to—“  
  
“What?” I barely have breath enough to ask.  
  
“To do such…bad things to you.” His mouth returns to mine, and his teeth gently close on my lower lip.  
  
“Mmh, like what?”  
  
He kisses me for a few delicious seconds before answering. “Rip your clothes off without asking. Tie your hands to the ladder and bend you into different positions. Bite you. Spank you. Pull your hair. Make you late for dinner.” 

I’m panting and kneading his ass by the time he finishes, laughing at the last part. “What’s stopping you?”  
  
He moves his mouth to my neck. “I thought you wanted to just lie here.”  
  
“Shut up. The time for that is over.”  
  
“Ooh, awfully bossy for someone who wants to be—“  
  
I slap him.  
  
“Hey!” Marsh rubs his face. “What the hell?”  
  
I look away, confused. “Sorry.”  
  
After a long, awkward silence, he says carefully, “You know, there’s nothing wrong with letting someone else take charge once in while, right? You don’t have to be ashamed of liking it.”  
  
“I’m not—I don’t—that’s not—ugh, just get off me.”  
  
He rolls off. “Baby—“  
  
“Don’t _call_ me that.” I sit up. 

“Sorry, habit.”  
  
I give him the side eye. “Who are you in the habit of calling baby?”  
  
It’s his turn to look away. “No one, anymore.”  
  
After a moment, I tentatively reach for his hand. He lets me take it, but still doesn’t look at me. Shit. I fucked everything up again. I always fuck everything up. Eventually he gives my hand a gentle squeeze and leans against me.  
  
I ruin it again—probably—by blurting out, “What was he like?”  
  
It’s his turn to give me the side eye. Then he flops down on his back and throws an arm over his eyes. “Different from you. In a lot of ways.”  
  
Well, that wasn’t so bad. “How?”  
  
Marsh peeks out from under his arm to grin slyly at me. “Taller, for one.”  
  
I lie down on my belly next to him, giving him a stern look. “Everyone’s taller than me. That doesn’t tell me anything.”  
  
“All right, then. He wasn’t that much taller, actually, I was just teasing.”  
  
“So you like short guys.”  
  
He looks embarrassed. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Although I’m taller than most people, so it would be pretty hard to find anyone if I only went for guys my height.”  
  
I turn on my side and lean my head on my elbow, scrutinizing him. “But is it anyone who’s shorter than you, or guys who are shorter than average?”  
  
“I…I guess shorter than average,” he admits, sounding as if he were confessing a fetish for underage Colterons in kitten-skin lingerie.  
  
“Hmmmm,” I say with relish, just to torment him. “Tell me more. About him, I mean.”

Marsh’s arm covers his eyes again, but the parts I can see look relieved. “So uh, what do you want to know?”  
  
“Hmm…well, to start off, what did he look like?” By which I mean, of course, who’s cuter—him or me?  
  
“Let’s see…he had black hair that was curly but also kind of glossy, and brown eyes with really long, _intense_ eyelashes. The kind where the aunties say it’s a waste that a boy got them. And medium brown skin, and a round nose. What else…um, he was a little taller and…thicker than you.”  
  
Is he talking about our dicks? Never mind, I don’t want to know. “What did he dress like?”  
  
“Uh—I don’t know. Not like me. I mean, I guess you don’t know how I dress in civilian life. I guess I just wear—normal clothes? Basic things?”  
  
I snort.  
  
“Oh come on, I don’t know all those fashion words. He did. He was a lot more…hip, I guess. He wore…I don’t know, cute stuff, with colors and patterns and scarves and whatnot. He was always trying to get me new clothes, but I liked my old ones.”

“Why am I not surprised?”  
  
He peeks out from under his arm. “What does that mean?”

I pat him. “Nothing bad. So what was he like personality-wise, other than fashionable and bossy?”

“He wasn’t really bossy, he just tried to coax me and tease me a little when he wanted me to do something.”  
  
“So he was bossy in a _clever_ way.”  
  
“Uh, I don’t know. So. Anyway." Marsh stretches. "He was artistic and creative, but very neat and organized. Mostly. He had a lot of stuff, and it kind of…spread out sometimes. He...wasn’t dangerous like you. He liked almost everyone and he was confident that they would like him, so they usually did. He was very…affectionate and demonstrative. And he talked a lot, and waved his hands around. But at the same time he didn’t always say things directly. Sometimes I felt like I was supposed to read his mind. I like that you tell me what you want.”

I’m not sure what to make of this. By comparing us, is Marsh implying that I’m his new boyfriend? If so, we’re going to have to have a very unpleasant talk. _I wish I could be his new boyfriend_. The thought crawls up out of my subconscious and I’m hacking away at it before I’ve even had the time to consider it. What about Him? You want to betray Him? Another rebellious thought pops up. _HE doesn’t want me, why shouldn’t I have a boyfriend?_ Hack, hack, hack. It’s not about that, I tell the thought sternly. Even if He said I could have a boyfriend, Marsh is too easy. Easy to be with, easy to steer, easy to like. Everything about my upbringing, everything I know about the world, screams that things that look good and are easy to get are a trap. People who act too nice want something they’re not telling you about, or they’re planning something, or there’s something wrong with them that’s hidden. Everything has a price.

Well, Marsh’s price is not hard to figure out. He’s being nice because he wants me. He wants me to abandon Him and become publicly his. Kiss him in the hallways. Play footsie under the table in the mess hall. Sleep over. All the things He would never do.

But Marsh has never saved my life, and he doesn’t know what it is to fight. Clearly he’s never been knifed for real, or the idea wouldn’t be exciting to him. And he has no idea what he’d be asking me to give up. I know you think I mean Him, but that’s only the surface. Marsh wants to domesticate me, to turn me into someone cuddly and trusting like his old sweetheart, someone without teeth. Someone who can’t protect himself and has to rely on his big strong boyfriend. I’ve seen how _that_ turns out, thank you. I will not be my mother.

 _He_ may not be as nice to me, but at least He respects me as I am now: suspicious, mean, sneaky and dangerous as fuck. The fact that He has use for me proves that. _He_ doesn’t try to pry me open and disarm me, as if I were some kind of especially alluring bomb.

I look at Marsh, his soft supple mouth and stubborn chin, his aggressive, handsome nose and the one worried dark eye I can see peering out at me from under his muscular forearm. Goddammit. In spite of all my ominous thoughts, I just… _want_ him. I want him to be _my_ pet, not the other way around. He can be whatever kind of creature he wants, savage or gentle or both at once, as long as he doesn’t get in His way. Would He let me have a pet? I don’t know. On the one hand He generally stays out of my private life, but on the other someone like Marsh could be a distraction, and of course Marsh has already challenged Him publicly, which makes him an opponent. Maybe if he worked with us? but I’m having trouble imagining him agreeing to that.

Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing anyway. Probably Marsh is just keeping company with me until he gets his own short, sweet, wide-eyed, cuddly navigator, someone who he can room with and hover around in public without anyone thinking anything of it. That makes sense. It was stupid of me to think anything else. He’s probably only acting boyfriend-ish out of habit, like he said. He probably doesn’t know how else to act with someone he’s fucking, because he’s only had long-term boyfriends, not hookups or—don’t think about that.

I reach out and touch his cheek with the back of my hand, and his face relaxes. My sweet boy. Stop it, self, he isn’t yours. “Do you miss him?” I ask before I can think.  
  
He winces. “I try not to.”  
  
Ah. That explains it. I kiss his shoulder and place my hand on the middle of his chest to warm it. “What happened?”  
  
He shifts impatiently, switching arms. I think he’s trying to hide his eyes. “The usual, I guess. He found someone else.”  
  
“Does that usually happen?”  
  
Marsh glares out from under his arm. “Haven’t you ever had a boyfriend?”  
  
“No. Well…” I think about Andrei, and Luka—but no, they don’t count. They both had girlfriends, and I wasn’t allowed to meet them, or the families either. Andrei was only affectionate when he was drunk, and Luka never was, although he never got violent like Andrei, either. Andrei sober was tense and impatient, with shoulders like rounded concrete blocks and a neck made of steel cables; Andrei drunk was unpredictable, dishing out passionate kisses and black eyes from the same bowl. Luka and I usually got fucked up on pills and lay around on the floor in a stupor watching cartoons and eating takeout, until I’d feel his hand sliding up my shirt and knew it was time to provide my share of the entertainment. Not that I minded, though; he was cute and easygoing, a man of simple tastes. You just had to keep condoms in your pockets, and remind him to use them, because he always forgot to clean the carpet otherwise. Sometimes he forgot how much money he had on him, too. I shake my head. “No.”

His jaw drops. “But you’re so—“  
  
“Gorgeous?” I smirk. “Charming? Brilliant?”  
  
“Well yes, but I was thinking more, uh…”  
  
“Great at sucking dick?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Among other things. Really I just meant—sexually confident.”  
  
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”  
  
“Oh, come on. You’re just not shy, or awkward.”  
  
“Hmm.” If he only knew.  
  
“I still feel…pretty shy, a lot of the time. Especially with you,” he confesses.  
  
“Aww, that’s cute.” I get very close and stroke his cheek with my finger. “Why’s that?”  
  
“Stop it!” he giggles like a baritone schoolgirl.  
  
I climb on top of him. “Let’s track how far down your blush goes.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Right now it’s…here.” I draw a wavy line on the bottom of his cheek, then sit up and pull my shirt slowly over my head.  
  
“I don’t think it works that way,” he protests, his eyes following me.  
  
“Now it’s…here.” I stroke his collarbone. At this point I’m just making it up; it’s impossible to tell where it begins and ends.  
  
“Skala!”  
  
I startle a little, still not used to the name. It’s silly, but then so is ‘Marsh.’ So is calling each other by our ID numbers, which is what we’re technically supposed to be doing until we get task names. The secrecy is ridiculous but I like it; I like the idea that I can hide my true name away like some wizard. I stroke the skin by the corner of his mouth, run my thumb slowly along his lower lip and then back across the upper one. They part, and his eyes drift closed. “Look at me,” I tell him.  
  
His eyes open and focus.

“Tell me something you want me to do.”  
  
His blush intensifies. It doesn’t spread, though. “I—um, I don’t know, I—“  
  
“There must be something you want.”  
  
“Well, there are a lot of things…”  
  
“Pick one.”  
  
“I—uh—well, I—“ he stammers. “I liked it before when you…touched yourself with your knife.”  
  
Uh oh. I really shouldn’t subject the girls to any more of that, certainly not when I’m shirtless. Well, I never promised to actually do it. Good to know, though. I smile at him. “Good. Tell me something else.”  
  
“Do I have to?”  
  
I lean close and lick his ear. “Don’t you want to?”  
  
“I—it’s really hard to.”  
  
I trap his nipple under my palm, and rub. “But you like to, don’t you?”  
  
He swallows, and nods. “After I met you, I—had some thoughts.”  
  
Ooh, juicy. “What kind of thoughts?”  
  
“B-bad thoughts. They were…kind of stupid too.”  
  
“I doubt it. Tell me.”  
  
Marsh closes his eyes and winces. “Well, I thought about you coming into my room when I was asleep. And tying me up before I woke up.”  
  
“You must be a heavy sleeper.”  
  
“Not here I’m not. Maybe I just…didn’t object. Very hard.” He smiles up at me. “I don’t know, I didn’t really think about the logistics of that part.”  
  
I roll his nipple between my fingers to make him moan. “So I tied you up? Did I tie you to the bed, or tie your hands behind your back?”  
  
“Well, I would like that too, but you tied my hands to the ladder. And then sat on me.”  
  
“Sat on you, or _sat_ on you?”

“Well, you had all your clothes on, so you just sat on me. Like you are now. In my imagination the top bunk was higher up.”  
  
“Which it should be. I swear they make them that way to keep us from—anyway. Go on.”  
  
“Well um, you sort of…did things to me. With your knife. Not…really damaging things. But.” He swallows again. “First you touched me with it some, then you, um, cut me a little. Then you…uh…licked the cuts.”  
  
Wow. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given his fascination with my knives, but this is a little freaky. I hope he doesn’t expect me to do all this. On the other hand, I seem to have succeeded in creating an impression of myself as a twisted psycho, so…good job, self? I keep my expression faintly amused, and run my hand down his midriff. “Then what?”  
  
“I uh, didn’t really make it past that point.”  
  
I let my smile broaden. “Why not? Too scary?”  
  
“You know why not! Stop torturing me!”  
      
“It sounds like you like being tortured. Why didn’t you make it any further?”  
  
He glares.  
  
I pet him some more. “Did you fall asleep? Because it was so boring?”  
  
He looks shifty. “…..yes.”

“I think you’re lying.” I draw my fingernail along his neck, and he shivers obligingly.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“What’s the real answer?”  
  
Marsh takes a deep breath. I’m actually feeling embarrassed out of sympathy at this point. “Because—I came,” he whispers, and covers his face with his arm.  
  
“There, you did it! What a good boy!” I drape myself over him and try my best to kiss away his scowl. “So brave.”  
  
“Don’t make mmmph FUN of me—“  
  
“I’m not.” I kiss his mouth and ears and neck; all of them are hot and flushed. “You don’t see _me_ telling you what _I_ thought about, do you?”

His eyes fly open. “You thought about me?”  
  
“Mmmmaybe.”  
  
“What did you think about?”  
  
“Engine schematics. Puppies. England.”  
  
“Now _you’re_ lying.”

“Would I do that?”  
  
“Yes.” He wraps his arms around me and flips us over. Suddenly he’s on top of me, grinning in a way that makes me nervous. “I don’t think you came thinking about those things.”  
  
“Who says I came?” I squeak, struggling for breath.  
  
He licks my earlobe, then plunges his tongue in over and over. Bastard. I should never have let him know how much I like that. “Did you?”  
  
“Did I—what?” I pant.  
  
“Did you come thinking about me?” His tongue pushes in again.  
  
“Oh Marsh, I—nngh. Oh. Ohhh.” I’m squirming but he’s holding me down, his fingers laced with mine.  
  
“Answer the question.”  
  
“Mmm, I like it when you’re demanding.”  
  
“Answer.”  
  
“I will say that there was a moment very much like this one. In my thoughts.”  
  
“Intriguing. Is that when you came?” He’s grinding against me and licking my neck.  
  
“No, we hadn’t even kissed yet—damn.”  
  
He laughs triumphantly.  
  
“I did not admit ANYTHING there.”  
  
“Then go ahead and admit it now.”  
  
“Admit what?”  
  
“You know what.”  
  
“I have to admit I’m losing track.”  
  
Marsh nips at my ear. “Admit you made yourself come thinking about me.”  He pushes his tongue in once, slowly, and I can’t help whimpering.  
  
“Okay, okay, I did.”  
  
He smiles brightly at me. “Good. Was that so hard?”  
  
“Was what so hard?” I give him an innocent smile.  
  
He growls. “You are _incorrigible_.”

“That’s right, thousands have tried to corrige me, and they all failed.”  
  
“I’m going to make you admit—something.”  
  
“Anything in particular?”  
  
He bites my neck.  
  
“Oh Marsh, _stop it_ , I can’t—”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”  
  
“At least do it on my shoulder where it doesn’t show.”  
  
He licks the bite mark. “You don’t want bruises?”  
  
“Well…let’s just say they would be inadvisable. At least if—someone can see them.”  
  
“But do you want them?”  
  
I close my eyes. This is probably not having the effect he intended. Fuck yes I want them. I want Him to give them to me, to show everyone that I’m His, and failing that, I want Marsh to give me some, so I can show Him what happens when He ignores me. But that would mean no more Marsh.  
  
“Skala?” He sounds worried.  
  
“I do, but—better not to. You’ll just have to corrige me some other way.”  
  
“Aww, okay.” He comes back up to kiss me, gently and sweetly, over and over.  
  
I tug my hands free and run them through his hair, feeling the shape of his head underneath.  
  
He wriggles. “Aah, you made it itchy!”  
  
I scratch his scalp.  
  
“Back! No, down, no, up a little—aaah.”  
  
I hold his head in my hands and stare into his eyes very seriously. “Marsh, we have a problem.”  
  
His eyes widen. “What?”    
  
“Both of us are wearing pants. At least I am, and you sort of are.” His are still pushed down to knee level. “I feel like this is a major barrier in our relationship.”  
  
He smiles in relief. “You are completely right. Luckily, I know of a way to get rid of them.”  
  
I raise my eyebrows.  
  
“Unfortunately, I have to get off you for a moment.”  
  
“Aww.”

“Just a moment.” Marsh rolls off, sits up, and pulls off his boots and pants. “Now for you.” He turns back to me and picks up one of my feet, running his hand all the way down my leg in a way that seems not entirely necessary. I’m not complaining, though. He slowly unzips the boot and pulls it off. I’m suddenly reminded of my fantasy in which I was doing the same to him and he panicked about what he thought were his smelly feet. “Why are you laughing?”  
  
I tell him.  
  
“You thought I had smelly feet?” he laughs. “No, even better, you fantasized about me having smelly feet?”  
  
“ _You_ thought you had smelly feet. Obviously they weren’t that smelly or I would have smelled them from where I was.”

“Where were you?” he asks slyly, pulling off my other boot sock and all and depositing it on the floor.  
  
“Take my pants off and I’ll tell you.”  
  
He leans forward to undo them, and I suddenly feel shy. We’ve never done this deliberately, actually looking at each other; we’ve only yanked our pants off in a blind frenzy. I brace on my feet and elbows to lift myself up so he can pull them off. He’s careful and serious about it. The cool air prickles my newly exposed skin, and I feel naked as a peeled shrimp, weak and scrawny and limp next to all his muscles. Muscular guys never look completely naked; it’s like they have their own internal suit of armor on.  
  
He smiles at me and strokes my leg. “So where were you?”  
  
“Well…my face was about where your hand is now.”  
  
“Oh my.” He gently parts my legs and lies down in between them, nuzzling my thigh. I breathe harder. “Then what did you do?”  
  
“Pretty much what you might expect.”  
  
“This?” He bites my inner thigh; it’s quick and startling but not hard enough to leave a bruise.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“I’m starting to figure out the way you operate.”  His lips and tongue are moving gradually upward, and my hips move to encourage them. He licks a slow line along the crease where my leg meets my hip, then loops back down to—ohhh. He’s—he’s licking me up and down, and I’m pushing up to meet him and I think I’m making those sounds that he likes, but I’m too focused on the way it feels to be sure. His mouth finally slips around the head and his tongue rubs the underside, and my hips jerk up violently, almost on their own.  
  
Marsh pulls his mouth off, and I look down in dismay. “That’s very bad manners,” he says sternly. “Do I have to hold you down?”  
  
“Mm hmm,” I confirm. “Incorrigible, remember?”  
  
He tsks, then presses his palms to my hips, pushing them down against the mattress. It hurts the skin over my hipbones, but it drives me crazy, and I’m moaning before he even starts licking again. “You like being held down?” he murmurs.  
  
“Yes yes oh fuck I love it, nnngh, oh I like _that_ too—“

He hums and I’m sobbing and kicking the covers. He releases one hip so he can wrap that hand around me, and god it’s moving and his—mouth, and his tongue, and I don’t even know what noises I’m making anymore or what I’m doing, I finally get to be free of thought and just let go and feel. It’s building and building and—  
  
“Do you want to come like this?” he asks suddenly, pulling his mouth off. “Or some other way?”  
  
I flail around, trying to remember what those noises mean. Oh. “I—I—uh, um…oh. I want—I want you inside me.” I may die of overexcitement at this rate but who cares.  
  
“Ok, sweetheart. Do you have some lube—I would’ve got some but I didn’t know you were going to—“  
  
“Just a minute.” I vault up and jump onto the lower bunk to grab the bottle from the top bunk. The things that are usually hidden between my mattress and the wall, or under the mattress if they’re flat enough, are scattered along the wall looking lonely and exposed. I hope he didn’t look too closely at them. I hop down and suddenly find myself backing into Marsh’s arms.  
  
“You know,” he breathes into my neck, “if you stood on the ladder we’d be the same height.”  
  
“Oh.” I consider. It sounds interesting, but I don’t know if I trust my limbs right now. “I think—maybe later.”  
  
“Okay.” His fingers trace the hollow of my hip, then move lower.  
  
I whine without thinking, and shove the bottle into his hand.

He kisses my neck, and I hear the cap pop open. I spread my legs a little and pull the cheeks apart, feeling awkward as hell, but then he catches his breath and I feel embarrassed in a more…exciting way. After a long moment, I feel his wet fingers sliding obscenely around…there. His other hand comes up around to pinch my nipple, and I grip the upper bunk frame and moan shamelessly, wriggling back against him. His fingers are rubbing and pressing and it feels so good but it makes me even more desperate to have him inside me. “Come on, do it, start with two—“  
  
He nips at my shoulder and I feel his fingertips rub the outside once last time, and then they’re pushing in, just a little ways, moving in and out, the pressure forcing me open and making me gasp. I could relax more but I like the slight burn, I like gripping him hard. I’d better relax though or he won’t put any more in. “Let’s—let’s go back to the mattress,” I pant.  
  
“All right, baby,” he murmurs, slowly pulling out. I’ve given up on trying to stop the endearments at this point. They must be a verbal tic. I can put up with them to get more of those fingers, and that body, and that voice.  
  
I fall to my knees on the mattress, and then down onto my elbows. I don’t even care about dignity anymore, I’m nothing but a raw, shivering bundle of need. I feel his other hand touching my ass, running over it possessively, and I don’t demand or beg this time, I just press my forehead into the pillow and submit.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Mm hmm.”  
  
“What do you want me to do?”  
  
I can’t stop my hips from moving. “Whatever you want.” My voice is ragged and awful.  
  
Silence. “Do you mean you want me to…be in charge?” he asks finally.  
  
“Mm hmm.”  
  
He strokes my hip. “Okay, sweetie. Just tell me if I do anything you don’t like, okay?”  
  
“Mm hmm,” I lie.  
  
He folds himself over me and nibbles the back of my neck. I can feel his erection rubbing against me, burning hot, and I sigh. I want it inside me so bad, but he’s going to make me wait for it. He twists my nipple again, and I sob and rub my ass against him. This time he sobs too.  
  
He pants for a few moments, grinding against me, and then gets back up and peels himself off. One hand grasps my hip firmly, and the other, the wet one, slides two fingers back in, moving at a faster pace this time. I spread my legs wider and make the helpless soft noise again. I may be doing it deliberately, but it’s not a lie.

Marsh growls and thrusts his fingers in harder. I gasp and startle, because it hurts for a moment, but I want to feel overpowered and brutalized so it’s exciting. He stops, though, more’s the pity. “Okay?”  
  
“Yes,” I snarl, forgetting to be submissive again.  
   
He laughs. “Did you forget who’s in charge?”  
  
I peer back at him. “Yes?”  
  
He leans forward again, pushing his fingers in slowly, at a more comfortable angle. “Is it you?”  
  
“No,” I whisper.  
  
“That’s right. Who is it?”  
  
“You.” My mouth is dry.  
  
“Good. You’re so sexy like that. I just want to shove all the way up your ass and make you scream.”  
  
I let out a strangled moan, pushing back against his fingers. He moves again, rubbing and stroking that spot that unhinges me. I clench around his fingers, then force myself to relax again. Breathe. Breathe. I can’t breathe but I have to breathe. Breathe.  
  
Marsh chooses this moment to withdraw and add a third finger. He talks mean, but he’s way too gentle. Three fingers is good though, I can work with that. Relax. Breathe. Relax.  
  
ARGH, he stopped again! “Are you okay? You stopped moving.”  
  
“I WILL NOT BE OKAY UNTIL YOU FUCK ME,” I shout.

Silence. Then trembling. Is he upset? I look around again, and one hand is clamped over his mouth in a desperate attempt not to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m terrible at this. I guess we both are.” He cracks up entirely, crumpling over to rest lightly on my back.  
  
I start to laugh too, but the laugh turns into a cry of anguish. “IT’S FUNNY BUT IT’S NOT FUNNY,” I shout again. “I HATE THIS. WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME.”  
  
“Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry, what should I do—“  
  
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE DO I HAVE TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU. INSERT TAB A INTO SLOT B. I only have one, it shouldn’t be too confusing.”  
  
“Okay, baby, just let me—“  
  
His fingers slide out a little too fast, and the tears finally spill out onto my cheeks. “AND CUT IT OUT WITH THE SAPPY NAMES, I CAN’T TAKE THAT SHIT RIGHT NOW.”  
  
“O-okay. Are you sure you don’t want to take a break? You seem kind of upset.”  
  
“I’LL BREAK _YOU_ IF YOU DON’T STICK YOUR COCK UP MY ASS RIGHT NOW.”  
  
“Okay, okay! Sheesh.”  
  
I can’t let him see or he’ll stop the whole thing. I can’t let him hear me sniff so I just have to let my nose run into the pillow and breathe through my mouth. This is so humiliating. I’m on all fours with my ass in the air, crying and begging this asshole to fuck me, and he won’t, he’s just _laughing_ at me.

***

I had to rub the lube in very thoroughly, if you know what I mean, because being shouted at is a bit of a turnoff. Well, maybe if it were sexy shouting, but he was obviously upset, and I didn’t understand why he wanted me to fuck him when he was upset. I didn’t understand, period. He seemed to be hating everything I did that came naturally, and wanting things that would usually make matters worse. But I wanted so badly to make him feel better, and he was so sure of what he wanted, so I decided to trust him.  
  
I stifled my impulse to lean forward and hug him, and then stifled a second impulse to stroke his back and coo to him. Instead, I took a deep breath and then gave his ass one hard slap before grabbing his hip and positioning myself. He inhaled sharply, and stopped trembling. I pushed forward into the alert, taut body bent over in front of me, and he exhaled quietly. I rocked back again, then grabbed him by the hips and pulled roughly, shoving in with hard, shallow strokes, inching deeper and deeper. He relaxed, stretching and arching his back, humming, rolling his hips back against me to take me in further. _I guess he does like this._

I angled down slightly, and he cried out. “Oh—yes—right there— _right_ there _—_ oh Marsh, Marsh—”

“Skala,” I murmured, and was suddenly desperate to have him closer to me. _But he likes this angle so much._ I let go of his hips and grabbed his shoulders, trying to keep our pelvises tilted at the same angle. He moved to adjust, supple and strong at once, and I realized with a flood of relief that it wasn’t all up to me.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back and to the side, so I could lick his neck. He wailed and panted wordlessly, and I shoved in deeper, faster. I was starting to lose it, lose myself, so I was grabbing onto him for dear life, and I was so angry at him for doing this to me but he was all I wanted and I couldn’t bear to let him go. I sunk my teeth into his shoulder and took hold of his cock, jerking it roughly as I slammed into him, taking a fierce, mean pleasure in his cries. And then he struggled violently, once, screaming as if he were going into the battle that he knew would kill him, spurting hot fluid onto my hand.

He collapsed, sighing, happy to be defeated. “I’m not done with you,” I growled, yanking his hips back up.  A muffled giggle. Fuck that. I pulled out most of the way, then slapped his ass. An appreciative noise. I slapped harder, then grabbed his shoulders again and pushed in. This time I jarred a little of the smugness out of his voice. _Wait, don’t I want him to like it?_ Well, he certainly seemed to now; he was humming and rocking his hips again.

Hmph. I pulled out entirely, and he gasped in horror—ha! I flipped him around onto his back, and there, finally, was his face. Sweaty, glowing, open, expectant, curious. The anger drained out of me in an instant. I wanted to cry, but if I did that look would go away, and so would he, probably.  
  
I leaned forward and pulled him up to me for a deep, slow kiss. We held each other tightly for a long moment, and I pressed my lips to his neck, feeling the faint, determined pulse at the base of his throat. I wanted to be inside him again, to feel him pulsing and clenching around me. I kneaded his rump, pushing up, and he took the hint, getting up on his knees and bracing himself with one arm around my neck.  
  
He held me in his hand and slowly worked his way back down, eyes closed in concentration. I ran my hands over his body, trying to discover and understand the wholeness of him, feeling him hum with tranquility. We breathed each other in, breathed our sorrow out, offering ourselves up to each other, to this joining. I remembered that back home this would be something I would be expected to confess as a sin, and almost laughed. What could be more right?  
  
We sighed in unison as he came down to rest on my lap. He opened his eyes and they were so clear and perfect that I couldn’t move. People are always comparing eyes to transparent pretty things like water or crystals, but what else is more beautiful? Nothing else combines symmetry with variety, or form with function, in just that way. Nothing else moves like that in response to the light, or the way you touch someone.  
  
I shifted my weight to one hand and brushed his slippery, inky hair back, stroking his damp cheek. He spread his fingers on my chest, glanced down, and whispered with a grin, “You’re blushing all the way down to _here_ now.”

I laughed, and it shook us a little, and his eyes widened and then he laughed too. His laughter traveled all the way down. “ _Oh,_ ” I said, and pushed up. His eyelids drifted closed, and he made that little helpless wanting sound that drives me wild. “Oh baby, baby, sweetheart,” I whispered into his neck, because I just couldn’t stop myself. This time he let me do it, even sighed and clung a little harder.

We started to move in earnest, me pushing off the mattress, him using my shoulders as leverage. My world started to blur and narrow, breaking down into harsh cries and tight heat and the smooth cool planes of his face and chest and shoulders. I called his name, clung to him with my one free hand, sucked his tongue into my mouth so he would be inside me too.  
  
“Marsh,” he whispered, “Marsh, just throw me down, pound me, I want it like that—“  
  
I stared for a moment, panting, trying to pull myself together. He was trembling and tense around me, and I managed to focus on his face; it was anxious but trusting. I pulled his head close and kissed him firmly, then tipped him over on his back, thrusting in right away. I realized now that the violence he wanted wasn’t angry or hateful; it was the fierce love of the hammer for the blade it forges. It would ruin it to tap too lightly when firm strokes were needed, just as it would to strike too hard or at the wrong angle. I needed to pay close attention to the effects of what I did, and make frequent small adjustments, which was both easy and difficult, because I wasn’t really a hammer and I could feel everything, I could feel him arching and stretching and tightening, the vibrations from his moans, the small shudders from my thrusts. Our eyes met and he smiled and I thought my heart would burst.  
  
His heels dug into the small of my back, and he reached up to twist my nipples so hard I saw sparks. My hips jerked reflexively at the pain, but then I rode it higher and higher and it pushed me up like a wave, and we gasped for breath and tore at each other, desperate to go under together, and finally I fell into his arms.  
  
***

We are definitely going to be late for dinner. Shit. I’m supposed to be meeting Him there. I give Marsh a peck on the lips and wriggle out from under him before he has time to fall asleep. “I have to be somewhere,” I mutter, and dart off to the shower. He stumbles in after me, getting all sweet and handsy and trying to wash my back. Not helping, Marsh, I need to be quick, but I guess I don’t want him poking around my room or god forbid, talking to my roommate once he gets back. Oh Marsh no, don’t fit your thumbs into the hollows of my hips like that, don’t tuck your face into my shoulder, I can’t _do_ this right now. I’ll give you one good long kiss, that’ll have to do until next time, now let me out before I get a good look at you and decide to lick you all over.

I manage to tear myself away and towel myself off, then scramble into my scattered clothes. Marsh follows more slowly, eyeing me, and I sigh internally and hand him his shirt and boots. He takes the hint and hurries up. We shove the mattress back up onto the top bunk and I drag him out the door. This was easier last time. I check to make sure the hall is unoccupied, then whisper, “We can’t go in at the same time. Give me a couple minutes head start, all right?”  
  
He nods, smiling.  
  
“And don’t—don’t LOOK at me once we’re in there, okay?”  
  
His smile broadens. “I’ll try not to.”  
  
“Stop looking at me like that _now!_ ”

“I’ll stop looking at you if you stop feeling up my arm.”  
  
Oh. My hand drops down to my side.  
  
Marsh closes his eyes, leans closer and whispers, “I won’t look at you, but I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Oh _stop_ it.” My cheeks feel hot. I grab the back of his head and kiss him just once more, then turn and bolt for the mess hall.

When I get there He’s almost finished. He gives me a sidelong look, but doesn’t say anything as I slide in next to Him with my tray. It hurts to sit down, and I think I might be blushing again. Even with my distraction, His presence reaches out and squeezes my heart, pumping out love and despair in equal measure. I want to lean on Him, cling to His arm and confess my sins, without needing to find words, maybe by osmosis. All my words dissolve around Him.  
  
I concentrate on the soup. It’s someone’s creative attempt at solyanka, heavy on the pickled vegetables and light on the meat. I’m surprised to find out that I really am hungry. And tired. It’s hard to concentrate when He finally starts to speak, nothing very intense, just little comments on his day, who got in whose face, who made mistakes and what they were, who fought who and what was the outcome.  
  
I know I shouldn’t, but I start thinking again about the way Marsh’s lips feel. And his big calloused hands, touching and exploring and probing and making me shiver in delight, holding me close and not letting me go. I want to be on all fours for him again, feel him bent over me, his hands on mine, his erection invading me in that most intimate and embarrassing of places, stretching me tight but making me feel so good, battering away at my self-control…

“Yo. Myshonok, are you even paying attention?”  
  
I widen my eyes and nod.  
  
“You know, the soup is really not _that_ good. You want the rest of mine?”

I realize I’m sucking the spoon. I don’t actually want any more soup at this point, but it’s an honor to share His food so I accept. A tiny smile pulls my lips up.  
  
He eyes me sideways as I eat it. “How are you doing?”  
  
I stop mid-spoonful. This is not a typical question and I have no idea how to answer it. I shrug and then shove the soup in my mouth.  
  
“You’ve been acting weird lately. Are you sure you aren’t still sick?”  
  
“M’okay,” I whisper, then look down. This scrutiny is unnerving. I’d rather look at _Him_.

“Well at least you’re eating,” He chuckles.  
  
I nod.  
  
He scans the room, tapping His fingers on the table, and I know He wants a smoke. I finish as fast as I can, drinking right from the bowl, and look up at Him.  
  
“Come on. Let’s go.”  
  
We make our way to the alcove near the storerooms that’s been our usual meeting place. It smells terrible; you can tell He smokes there a lot. I don’t know why smoke smells good on Him but bad in a room. He perches on one of the empty crates we dragged in there, lights a cigarette, and inhales. He knows better than to offer me any now.

I sit on the floor near His feet, to avoid the smoke and because I enjoy the irony of feeling like a steel bikini-clad maiden on the cover of a heavy metal album. I know better than to rest my head against His knee or curl my arm around His calf, but it’s a constant battle not to. I content myself with drinking in the shape of His legs, the texture of His boots, imagining the way they would feel in my hands or under my tongue—oh god I’m getting hard, stop it self, fuck, what is wrong with you, you just had _so_ much sex. I draw my knees up to my chest, hug them, stare fiercely at the floor. Well, it’s not like He doesn’t already think I’m a sex maniac. It’s still embarrassing, though, probably for both of us, if He noticed, which I pray He didn’t.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. His voice startles me when He finally speaks. “We have some time to fuck around now, but once we get to base, we need to get down to business.”  
  
I look up and nod.  
  
“And after basic training, when we get our navigators, that’s when we need to really get our shit together.”  
  
Uh oh. This doesn’t sound good.  
  
“We’re gonna need to be focused. Save all our energy for the things that matter.”  
  
For the hundredth time, I wonder what it is that matters about what we’re doing. Not to mention _what_ it is that we’re doing. But I would rather sit on pins than ask.

He looks down at me sternly. “Понимаешь?”  
  
I nod.  
  
“Good.”  He ruffles my hair, trailing His hand partway down my cheek at the end, an electric half-caress. I lean into the touch but He’s on His feet, flashing me a grin, striding out the door, and I have no bones to hold me up. I sink back against the crate, feeling the spot where He sat. The warmth is already gone, if it was ever there at all. A traitorous thought rises up like a cobra: _you’re going to have to do better than that_.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot BELIEVE how long it took me to finish this damn story. Most of it I wrote months ago! I was so stuck trying to make it fit with canon--in their fight in Chapter 2, Cain doesn't mention anything about Praxis trying to steal Deimos, and you know he would if it were a thing; yet there's no possible way he could be oblivious enough to miss Deimos cavorting around right under his nose like that. I think I have a solution now, though. Sort of.
> 
> Понимаешь = (You) understand?


End file.
